


The Prince

by ferventrabbit



Category: Hannibal (TV), Mononoke-hime | Princess Mononoke
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crossover, M/M, Supernatural Elements, Violence, they're still idiots but now they're animated
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-25
Updated: 2016-04-08
Packaged: 2018-05-29 00:23:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6351469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ferventrabbit/pseuds/ferventrabbit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Princess Mononoke crossover in which Hannibal must uncover the root of the darkness inside him, or die trying.</p><p>AU created by <a href="http://stolligaseptember.tumblr.com/">stolligaseptember</a>. Updates every two-three weeks or whenever the Forrest Spirit moves me ;-)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lillaseptember](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lillaseptember/gifts).



> Thank you to [stolligaseptember](http://stolligaseptember.tumblr.com/) for her wonderful AU!

It started in the trees. Hannibal felt it that night, even as the village slept beneath straw and hay. A trembling.

He raised the heavy curtain from the door, glancing back at Mischa and murmuring reassurance to the sentry, _no, just some air to clear my head_ , and he stepped barefoot onto the cool grass. There were few stars; the night was thick with black cloud. He could see a light flickering on the high tower - unusual that his uncle should be awake so late, he thought.

There it was. Shifting.

He felt a yank in his gut, like the feeling of falling from a great height. He stood with his hand on his belly as his heart sped, and he listened to the sharp cracking of branches and the sweeping of leaves.

After a moment, all was still.

\----

In the morning he fed and watered Yakul, brushed him down and let Mischa feed him a blackberry from the bush outside Bella’s hut. Yakul slipped his lips around Mischa’s fingers and nibbled lightly at her knuckles, eyes twinkling.

“Hannibal! He is an incorrigible beast,” Mischa laughed. Her hat was askew, untied at the chin.

“A terror, surely,” Hannibal said as he stroked Yakul’s broad neck. The red hair ran smooth through his fingers. Mischa adjusted her hat, tied the white string into a bow that grazed her throat. She looked toward the line of trees beyond the stone wall.

“You felt it too?” Hannibal asked.

“Felt it,” Mischa repeated flatly, eyes distant. She stirred. “No, not exactly. We saw something in the forest this morning, like the flushing of birds.”

“Only?”

“Only, a coldness - a darkness accompanied it.”

Hannibal studied her face as her expression deepened and changed. He remembered her small and wailing in the great hall, his mother and father robed in green cloth, yellow petals affixed to their brows. Colors of new birth. He marvelled that she stood before him now, tall as his shoulder. Growing.

He smiled. “Try not to worry about it. Really.” He took the cone of her hat in his hand and tilted it forward, covering her eyes with the wide straw brim. He chuckled at her grimace.

“Brother,” she hissed. Hannibal swung up onto Yakul’s back before she could pinch him.

“You are long-suffering, Mischa,” he teased. “Don’t worry. I will speak with Uncle.”

He listened to her sigh as he rode off, turned briefly to watch her join the other girls in the village square. Yakul quickened beneath him. Hannibal clicked his tongue, bent forward to take hold of a ridged antler as they sped toward the high tower. Dirt kicked up in their wake.

“Uncle,” Hannibal called. He lept from Yakul’s back and took hold of a ladder rung. A shudder ran through him, would have gone unnoticed but for the quiet shifting in the trees, the cold finger of dread that skimmed his spine.

When he reached the lookout his uncle was motionless, eyes squinted. “Hannibal,” he said. He sounded half-awake, but Hannibal knew him to be focused and alert.

“Uncle. Did you see it?"

“I did. It isn’t human.”

They both turned at the tolling of the guard bell, saw the the hustle of townsmen as the ushered the womenfolk inside and yelled for weapons.

“There - look,” his uncle said.

There was a pulse, like the beating of a drum. Then the stone wall broke open.

“It’s some kind of demon!”

Hannibal heard himself reply from far away, felt his uncle’s presence at his side and the jostling of the quiver across his back. He reached for a bow.

The demon was a writhing mass, veined in ropes of blood-colored sludge that met at its eyes, red and unseeing. Hannibal heard it roar, and the sound surged through his chest. As he nocked an arrow the pitch of the roar increased. For a moment the demon’s skin seemed to peel back and up, and Hannibal glimpsed the hulking shape of a boar beneath it, tusks dipped low. Its beady eyes found him.

“-annibal. _Hannibal_! Do you hear me?”

He aimed at the place between the boar’s eyes, but it rushed forward as its tendrils returned. Eight legs spiked into the ground and left rot in their wake. Hannibal saw the beast’s path.

“Yakul!” His elk was frozen still, his ears flat back. “ _Yakul_ !” Hannibal shot the arrow and hit the wooden post at the base of the high tower. Startled, Yakul balked and bolted, almost fast enough to dislodge Hannibal as he landed on the elk’s back. He heard his uncle yell, then heard the yell recede in an arc - _must have jumped_ \- as the high tower toppled. The demon climbed over the wreckage and hurtled toward them.

Hannibal turned, the beast flitting in and out of his vision. “Calm your fury, oh mighty lord!” It was paces behind them, churning the earth. They were headed toward the village. He took Yakul’s antlers in his hands, tried to turn them north. The elk was blind with panic, running straight forward instinctively. Sharp branches grazed Hannibal’s cheek in the thicket of the wood.

The knoll of the guard bell drew nearer. As they reached a clearing the demon turned, hesitated, then barreled straight down towards the scurrying villagers, the fleeing sentries. Hannibal yanked as hard as he could on Yakul’s antler, sending a kick to his right flank. He finally responded and turned, and Hannibal had a moment to breathe before he saw her. He opened his mouth to scream, but his exhale was pained and soundless.

Mischa stood in the monster’s path, knife brandished at her side. The other girls fled behind her - even the sentries hid in the doorways of neighboring huts. There was a look on her face that Hannibal had seen a thousand times. _I will do this. I am strong enough_. He noticed the strangest details - the strings had become untied under her chin, a strand of hair had fallen in front of her face like a black stripe. A glint of light struck the knife blade.

Yakul charged forward, and Hannibal belatedly realized that he was shouting _GO GO GO_ , urging the elk with bleeding fingertips. Hannibal raised his bow, circled the demon’s left side as he aimed. He heard Mischa’s scream. As the bow released a tendril from the demon’s thrashing skin shot out and circled his arm. It felt warm and tight, painless at first, and then the heat sunk into his heart and he felt his eyes close, his mind unhinge. He was aware of the smell of burning flesh, a crest of agony sweeping through his belly and bones. But more than that, he was aware of a hushed whisper inside him. _Yes. Let me in._

He forced his eyes open and saw the blood gushing from the boar’s snout. There was a great pool of dark black pitch beneath him. Blood in the moonlight.

Mischa was crushed under the weight of its hoof.

Hannibal heard the wise woman’s voice, soft and strong. “Oh nameless god of rage and hate - I bow before you.” Someone approached Hannibal with a skein of cool water, splashed it over the place on his arm where the demon’s curse had fallen. Steam rose from the wound as if from hot stone.

“The prince is shaking,” someone said.

He felt arms around him, guiding him down into the heart of the village. A rumble erupted from the demon’s slack mouth, and when he heard it his mind clenched, his breath stopped. The words the demon spoke seemed to have his voice.  
  
“Disgusting little creatures. Soon, all of you will feel my hate...and suffer as I have suffered.”


	2. Chapter 2

Hannibal couldn’t remember arriving at Lady Murasaki’s lodge. He was only vaguely aware of her voice drifting toward him as she sat before the seeing stones, tossing them together and wrinkling her brow in thought. The elders sat lined along the western wall - they were joined by some of the village sentries. No one looked at him. 

His right arm felt detached, somehow, heavier than his other limbs. He was hyperaware of it. The burning pain of earlier had faded into a pulsing ache, beating in time with his heart. There was a sound he could barely hear that that joined it, like a hushed breath beneath the surface. He caught it between the clacking of the wise woman’s stones.  _ Yes. Yes. _

“Yakul?” Hannibal asked. One of the elders raised his head.

“Your elk is in the stables, my prince. He has been fed.”

Lady Murasaki tutted. Silence.

Finally, she spoke. “I’m afraid this is very bad,” said the wise woman. She folded her hands into the long, drooping arms of her robe. Torchlight glinted on the shells around her neck. “The stones tell me the boar god came from far to the west. He was consumed by a curse that ripped through his flesh and bone. It turned him into a demon. Prince Hannibal?”

“Yes?”

“Show everyone your arm.”

For a fleeting moment, inexplicably, Hannibal wanted to refuse.  _ Will you reveal me?  _ He breathed deeply, willed his mind to settle. He brushed the bandage with his fingertips and felt the heat of simmering flesh. He unwound the fabric quickly. The men gasped. Lady Murasaki shone.

“What is it?” whispered a sentry. At the sound of his voice Hannibal felt a tide of anger rise in his belly. He closed his eyes.

“My prince,” said the wise woman. Her voice compelled him.

“Yes, Lady Murasaki.”

“Are you ready to learn your fate?”

He nodded. Somehow, he already knew.

“The infection will spread throughout your whole body -”

_ I am here, home. _

“It will cause you great pain -”

_ The more you resist me. _

“- and then kill you.”

_ Death is not a defeat, but a cure _ .

Hannibal heard the sentries shout in dismay, the elders gasp and sigh. “How can we let this happen?” one said. The others spoke of legacy, bemoaned the loss of their last prince. “Must he cut his hair and leave us, after only twenty turns?”

Lady Murasaki stared at him. She produced a dull object from within her sleeve, laid it flat before her. Hannibal saw that it was a human jaw bone.

“This is what hurt him so,” she said. “It burned its way deep inside him. This is what turned him into a demon.”

Lady Murasaki did not continue - Hannibal was sure she knew more, perhaps how the bone had arrived there, why it destroyed him. He had never seen a god before, though while his parents lived they told him stories of giant beasts that roamed the forests, elk and boar and wolves the size of trees. Mischa would sit at his feet, blinking in wonder. How could a tiny thing, a fragile thing like a human bone bring such a creature low?

“You cannot change your fate, Hannibal. But you can rise to meet it.”

_ Rise. _

“There is evil at work in the land to the west, my prince. You must seek it out. You may find a way to lift the curse.”

The land to the west, his mother used to say: the home of the gods. Home to the Great Spirit who ruled them, who had power over life and death. 

“Do you understand?”

“Yes.” He heard his voice tremble and swallowed the accompanying shame. He could not find the source of his fear. 

“Can we not keep the prince safe here?” said the High Elder. “Tend to his wound while scouts go to the west in search of a cure?”

Lady Murasaki leaned forward slightly. “Some beasts shouldn’t be caged.” 

Hannibal felt her eyes on him as he rose from his seat on the floor. He removed his knife from the sheath at his ankle, reached up and sliced through the hair tied back at the base of his scalp. Don’t think about it, don’t think about it - he tried not to say it aloud. The strands fell neatly behind him.

“Our laws forbid us from watching you go, Hannibal. Whatever comes to pass now, you are dead to us forever.” Hannibal faced out toward the door, did not turn around to acknowledge her. “Farewell,” she said.

Each step forward carried her voice - farewell farewell farewell - until he was standing under the stars. He walked as if asleep, letting his legs carry him until his path became clear. His brain buzzed with noise. A quick huff stopped him near the village edge. He turned and saw Yakul standing awake in the stables, regarding him unfazed.

“My friend,” Hannibal said. Yakul huffed again. 

Hannibal wove towards the stable, feeling drunk and flushed and no better for it. He slipped Yakul’s bridle over the elk’s head, secured the saddle and laid a soft blanket for his seat. 

“I need your help,” he whispered. He leaned his forehead against Yakul’s neck, let his hand reach up to circle an antler. They stood together for several minutes, Yakul’s head tipped patiently downward. Slowly, Hannibal’s mind quieted, refocused. He walked to the back of the stall and retrieved his riding cloak, thick hay sliding over his shoulders and falling wide at his knees. Hannibal’s cap was tucked into the corner by the feeding trough, and as he put it on he struggled to reconcile the shortness of his hair. He felt exposed - newborn. He brought the wind guard up over his mouth, gave Yakul a pat on the side before climbing into the saddle. 

No one came to wish him well as he rode through the village gate. To see him now would mean banishment for any of them - the boys he played with in his youth, the sentries who ran from the demon’s charge, Lady Murasaki herself. There was a pile on the other side of the gate, a loaf of hard bread and his father’s red bowl. Hannibal swung down from Yakul’s back and tucked the food into the rucksack under his cloak. He tied the bowl to front of the saddle. There remained a small red pouch in the grass, and when he picked it up he saw it was fastened with one of the wise woman’s gold beads, strung through with grey hair. Inside was a small cache of coins and a sprig of amaranth for a safe journey. Nestled beside them was the jaw bone. Hannibal’s fingers grazed it, sent a thrill down his spine. 

And Mischa’s dagger.

It hung from a thick piece of twine, it’s jagged edges teeth-sharp. Murasaki had given it to her at birth. A blessing.

“You must protect her, Hannibal,” the wise woman had said. “Her spirit is part of you.”

He’d taught her to parry, taught her to thrust and evade. On summer days they hunted beyond the stone wall, and when Hannibal struck prey with his bow he would let Mischa deliver the killing blow, let her slide the dagger across the quivering neck. It felt dead as he held it - ice. The crystal was almost too dark to distinguish, bleeding through his hand and melting into the earth below him.  
  
Hannibal caught the edge of a strange sound, like the keening of a dying creature in the night. After a moment he realized it was his own voice, screaming. The village was silent.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there's some creature stuff going on you guys. Its little tidbits are in italics, and Hannibal's thoughts are in bold. Will they become one someday? Perhaps!

Hannibal had never been this far from home.

Yakul broke through the forest at the edge of the village, and they rode out onto flat, dark fields. As the sun rose the earth stirred with sound. Yellow light spilled across dew-soaked grass and rocks, and Hannibal could see for miles and miles: green mountains, the spine of a slow-moving river, herds of sheep hunkered low on the plains. Birds of prey called overhead. All the while Hannibal felt a whisper on his neck.  _ Ride hard. There is work to do _ .

\---

He could see the tops of houses ahead, bigger than the huts of his village. They were buffeted by fields of wheat and barley and strange, tall trees with wide leaves. Vultures circled high in the air. Yakul snorted, and his hackles raised beneath Hannibal’s hands. He heard the sound of slicing steel. Soldiers shouting.

“A battle?”

The mountain path spilled onto a country road, and the fields spread out to his right. He halted Yakul and watched as villagers fled from a tide of soldiers, mercenaries, who trampled the old and feeble in their pursuit. 

_ No _ , said the breath in his ear.  _ A massacre. _

One of the soldiers slid onto the road and raised his spear. He struck a crouching women with the butt of it, and Hannibal could almost hear her ribs breaking. Corn from her basket scattered in the dust. 

“Stop!” Hannibal shouted. His voice was rough, broken. He reached back and notched an arrow in his bow, aiming for a tree past the soldier’s head to startle him. 

_ Massacre. _

A shudder ran through his arm, almost visible beneath the fabric of his sleeve. Pain rocketed up from the demon’s mark. His heart was on fire.

He loosed the arrow, and as the soldier raised the spear above his head with both arms the arrow cut straight through the flesh above his elbows. The arms fell wriggling to the earth as the soldier’s silent shocks melted into screams. Hannibal pressed Yakul forward, drawing another arrow before he could think.

“Stop him!” 

“Don’t let him get away!”

Yakul stomped through a pool of the soldier’s blood as they sped on. The other fighters surged up to meet them.

“Let me pass! I’m warning you!”

**I can outrun them, Yakul can outrun them** , he thought. His thighs burned where they gripped the saddle. 

_ Yes. And what else can you do? _

Hannibal closed his eyes, felt the familiar energy of the hunt. The fingers of his right hand teased the bowstring back. He loosed the arrow with a sigh. 

It ripped through a soldier’s neck, cleaved the head from his body with a singing strike. Hannibal didn’t look back. His chest heaved as Yakul leaped ahead. A dim, cold horror settled inside him. He could hear the fading shouts of the soldiers on the path behind them.

“Demon! Demon!”

\---

He found himself under a heavy canopy of leaves, the wood rustling with animal life. He couldn’t remember arriving in this place - Yakul must have kept them moving, kept running until they came upon quiet. There was a small stream that trickled down a mossy bank, and it fell over a smooth stone in a waterfall. Hannibal settled them beside it. He hooked Yakul’s bridle onto a low branch and removed the saddle, smoothed out his coat. If there were thoughts in his head he couldn’t hear them. He heard the sound of running water and the booming, dark silence of fear.

He reached up to release his hair from the tie and found nothing -  **yes, it’s been cut** . He’d almost forgotten.

_ We’re alone. _

When he brushed his right arm it felt hot to the touch, simmering. He slowly removed his top shirt, unwound the fabric of his sleeves. He could feel Yakul watching him, and when he turned he saw the elk’s eyes blown wide and black.

“Don’t be afraid, my friend,” Hannibal said. Yakul stared.

The mark had spread from under the bandage, snaking up his arm. It had the appearance of burnt flesh, mottled and bruised in dark orchid. Hannibal didn’t touch it. He let the small stream of the waterfall fall over the wound and sink into his skin. Faint hisses of steam rose up.

Hannibal remembered when the fever had plagued the Emishi - Mischa was yet to be born. His parents wrapped him in damp blankets, forbade him from going outside, but still he was infected. The illness ravaged him, burning from the inside out. The village folk knelt outside and prayed for their prince.

He could hear his mother’s soothing voice, his father’s pacing. But above all else he felt empty, like a great chasm had been opened. In the yawning darkness he felt his childhood slip away, and in its place was a grinning thing, grown and waiting. He had slowly recovered from the fever, but the creature from the darkness remained. It never spoke, never moved but for the curling of its lips. At first he thought it a symptom, some lingering effect. But when Lady Murasaki visited him she mirrored the creature’s expression, laid her hand on Hannibal’s forehead.

“My prince,” she’d said. “You have awakened.”

“They have given me rosemary and ginger.” His voice was hoarse, and words felt foreign on his lips. Lady Murasaki sat on the edge of his bed, hay rustling beneath her skirts. She removed an earring and held the point of its hook to Hannibal’s skin. It pricked and loosed a droplet of blood.

“Do you see your blood, Hannibal?”

He nodded, heart hammering.

“It is not human, nor is it divine. The fever has quickened it.” She pressed her hand to the wound, and when she held up her palm the blood seeped into the lines of her hand. She let the blood drip down her wrist. “It has incubated long enough.”

Now as the waterfall numbed his arm he felt his blood rise up to the surface of the mark, cradle it and welcome it. His thoughts were muddled and grey, but his flesh was clean, singing.

_ Think on me. Do not fear me. _

The creature, it seemed, had finally found its voice.


End file.
